by Toland, John
* The fear that Tokyo was to be the next atomic target was “confirmed” the following night by a captured American fighter pilot downed near Osaka. Lieutenant Marcus McDilda didn’t have the slightest idea what atomic energy was until an interrogator, a general, jabbed the tip of a sword into the American’s lip and threatened to cut off his head. McDilda obliged. In his Florida drawl he described how atoms were split into pluses and minuses, which were then separated by a lead shield encased in a box thirty-six feet long and twenty-four feet wide. When the box was dropped from a plane, the lead shield melted and the pluses and minuses reunited with a monstrous explosion that could lay waste an entire city. Awed, his inquisitors wanted to know the next target. McDilda thought quickly. “I believe Kyoto and Tokyo. Tokyo is supposed to be bombed in the next few days.”
† In his dissenting, and largely ignored, opinion at the Tokyo Tribunal, Justice Radhabinad Pal of India declared that “if any indiscriminate destruction of civilian life and property is still illegitimate in warfare, then, in the Pacific war, the decision to use the atom bomb is the only near approach to the directives of the German Emperor during the first World War and of the Nazi leaders during the second World War. Nothing like this could be traced to the credit of the present accused.”
‡ This last-minute switch of planes was to confuse historians. By mistake the official communiqué announced that The Great Artiste had dropped the bomb and this was incorporated in most accounts, including several written by eyewitnesses. The error was discovered in 1946 when plans were made to retire The Great Artiste, because of her historical role, and it was learned that the serial number of the plane carrying the bomb was different.
§ Professor Sagane did not read the letter until after the war. Had he received it immediately he would have tried to persuade a group of influential scientists to join him in a protest, but the letter was deliberately kept from him. The day after the bombing one of his former students, a naval officer, informed him with visible agitation that a letter from several Americans, addressed to the professor, had just been turned over to the Navy. However, an Army officer instructed Professor Sagane to discount any rumor he might hear that the Navy had found a letter “about the atom bomb” because there was no such letter.
ǁ Umeda died of leukemia two years later; Tomimura also died of leukemia in 1964; Komatsu still suffers from anemia.
a After the war Admiral Toyoda said, “I believe the Russian participation in the war against Japan rather than the atom bombs did more to hasten the surrender.” The official British history, The War Against Japan, supports this contention: “… for it brought home to all members of the Supreme Council the realization that the last hope of a negotiated peace had gone and there was no alternative but to accept the Allied terms sooner or later.”
b Americans put the death toll at 35,000; the officials of Nagasaki, at 74,800.
35
“To Bear the Unbearable”
1.
In Tokyo that evening the Cabinet continued the fruitless debate. As spokesman for the militarists, Anami seemed as adamant as ever, but Sakomizu suspected that the War Minister was playing his own game of haragei. If Anami really meant what he said, all he had to do was resign and the Cabinet would be dissolved—whoever followed would have to be subservient to the militarists. Just before eleven Prime Minister Suzuki, who had scrupulously avoided getting involved in the argument, adjourned the meeting. It was clear that the Cabinet itself was unable to reach a decision. Now the last recourse was to call upon the Emperor.
Minutes later in his private office the Prime Minister instructed Sakomizu to arrange for an immediate imperial conference. First it would be necessary to obtain the kaki ban (handwritten seal) of the Army and Navy Chiefs of Staff. With foresight Sakomizu had already persuaded Admiral Toyoda and General Umezu to put their seals on a request for the meeting—he had told them, quite reasonably, that it might have to be called at a moment’s notice. The two officers had assumed that a conference with the Emperor would be held only if a unanimous decision was reached. Sakomizu did not ask Umezu or Toyoda for confirmation of their approval, since he knew they would not give it. Nor did he inform his chief that he had acquired the seals under provisional circumstances.
Within the hour the puzzled conferees—they had been summoned hastily without full explanation—began arriving singly at the obunko. They stepped out of their cars in the bright moonlight and were escorted by one of the chamberlains down a steep, mat-lined stairway to the long tunnel which led to the obunko annex, the imperial underground complex. Built into the side of a hill, it consisted of half a dozen rooms, the largest a conference chamber, poorly ventilated, sweltering. It was spare and gloomy with a ceiling supported by steel beams, and walls paneled in dark wood.
In addition to the Big Six—along with four secretaries, including the ubiquitous Sakomizu—the aged Baron Hiranuma, President of the Privy Council, had been summoned. In the anteroom their anger and confusion focused on Sakomizu. Toyoda, Umezu and two military secretaries pressed around him, their swords clanging ominously, and accused him of obtaining their kaki ban under false pretenses.
The Cabinet Secretary could not calm them even when forced to lie: “We are not going to make any decision at this conference.” He escaped his accusers only when the conferees were instructed to take their seats in the conference room at two long parallel tables. At the head of the tables on a dais was a much smaller one covered with gold-lined brocade behind which was a chair and a six-panel gilt screen.
At ten minutes before midnight the Emperor entered. He appeared tired and concerned. He lowered himself heavily into the chair on the dais. The conferees bowed and sat down, avoiding looking directly at him. Several of the older men began coughing, increasing the feeling of uneasiness. At Suzuki’s request, Sakomizu read the Potsdam Proclamation. The disturbing words stuck in his throat.
Suzuki briefly reviewed the recent debates in the Supreme Council and Cabinet, and then called on each member of the Big Six in turn for a statement. Despite the oppressive heat Togo was self-possessed. He quietly declared that the Potsdam Proclamation should be accepted at once so long as kokutai, the national essence, could be maintained. Admiral Yonai was just as contained. “I agree with Foreign Minister Togo,” he said evenly.
His unequivocal concurrence enraged War Minister Anami, the next in line. “I oppose the opinions of the Foreign Minister!” he exclaimed. The Army could not agree to surrender unless the Allies allowed Japan to demobilize her own troops, try her own war criminals and limit the occupation force. “If not, we must continue fighting with courage and find life in death.” His cheeks glistened with tears and his voice became strident as he pleaded for a last decisive battle in the homeland. “I am quite sure we could inflict great casualties on the enemy, and even if we fail in the attempt, our hundred million people are ready to die for honor, glorifying the deeds of the Japanese race in recorded history!”
The shaven-headed Umezu got to his feet. It would be unthinkable, he announced sternly, to surrender unconditionally after so many brave men had died for the Emperor.
Admiral Toyoda should have been the next to speak but Suzuki, seemingly confused but perhaps by design, asked Baron Hiranuma for his opinion. Anami and Umezu eyed him suspiciously—he might be well known as an ultranationalist, but like most of the jushin, he was probably a “Badoglio”—as he posed a series of pointed questions ending with one which called for a direct answer from the military: Could they continue the war?
Umezu assured him that further atomic attacks could be stemmed by antiaircraft measures. “We have been preserving our strength for future operations,” he said, “and we expect to counterattack in time.”
The legalistic Hiranuma appeared unimpressed. He agreed more or less with Togo, but he said they should negotiate with the Allies for the Army’s demands. He turned to the Emperor. “In accordance with the legacy of His Imperial Forefathers, His Imperial Majesty is also r
esponsible for preventing unrest in the nation. I should like to ask His Majesty to make his decision with this point in mind.” The crusty old man sat down.
When Toyoda finally spoke he tried to re-emphasize the militarist position, but his conclusions were ambiguous: “We cannot say that final victory is a sure thing, but at the same time we do not believe that we will be completely defeated.”
For more than two hours the old arguments had been repeated almost word for word. As Toyoda finished, Suzuki again got to his feet, slowly and deliberately. It appeared to Sakomizu that he was at last going to reveal the convictions he had repressed so long. What he said, however, astonished his listeners even more: “We have been discussing this matter many hours without reaching a conclusion. The situation is indeed serious, but not a moment has been spent in vain. We have no precedent—and I find it difficult to do—but with the greatest reverence I must now ask the Emperor to express his wishes.”
He turned toward his ruler. He asked that the Emperor decide whether Japan should accept the Potsdam Proclamation outright or demand the conditions the Army wanted. Unaccountably, he stepped away from his chair toward His Majesty. There were gasps.
“Mr. Prime Minister!” Anami exclaimed, but Suzuki seemed not to hear him and advanced to the foot of the Emperor’s small podium, his large shoulders bent with age. He stopped and bowed very low. With an understanding nod His Majesty bid Suzuki to sit down. The old man couldn’t catch the words and cupped a hand to his left ear. The Emperor beckoned him to return to his place.
As soon as Suzuki was seated the Emperor himself got to his feet. His voice, usually expressionless, was noticeably strained. “I have given serious thought to the situation prevailing at home and abroad and have concluded that continuing the war means destruction for the nation and a prolongation of bloodshed and cruelty in the world.” The others listened with heads bowed. “I cannot bear to see my innocent people suffer any longer. Ending the war is the only way to restore world peace and to relieve the nation from the terrible distress with which it is burdened.” He paused.
Sakomizu glanced up at His Majesty, who was gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling as he wiped his glasses with a white-gloved thumb. The Cabinet Secretary felt tears flooding his eyes. The conferees were no longer sitting stiffly in their chairs but had thrown themselves forward—some arms outstretched, prostrate on the tables, sobbing unashamedly. By now the Emperor had regained his composure. He resumed speaking in a voice choked with emotion but was again forced to stop. Sakomizu wanted to cry out, “We now all understand His Majesty’s wishes. Please do not condescend to say another word.”
“It pains me,” the Emperor was saying, “to think of those who served me so faithfully, the soldiers and sailors who have been killed or wounded in far-off battles, the families who have lost all their worldly goods—and often their lives as well—in the air raids at home. It goes without saying that it is unbearable for me to see the brave and loyal fighting men of Japan disarmed. It is equally unbearable that others who have rendered me devoted service should now be punished as instigators of the war. Nevertheless, the time has come when we must bear the unbearable. When I recall the feelings of my Imperial Grandsire, the Emperor Meiji, at the time of the Triple Intervention [by Russia, Germany and France in 1895], I swallow my own tears and give my sanction to the proposal to accept the Allied proclamation on the basis outlined by the Foreign Minister.”*
He had finished. Suzuki stood up, as did the others. “I have respectfully listened to His Majesty’s gracious words,” he said.
The Emperor started to reply but instead nodded. Slowly, as if burdened with some intolerable weight, he left the room.
“His Majesty’s decision,” said Suzuki, “should now be made the unanimous decision of this conference.” Of course, it had not been a decision in the Western sense, merely an expression of his wish. But to a loyal Japanese—and all eleven men in the room were that—his wish was tantamount to a command. The minutes of the meeting were recorded, and the conferees, still shaken by the Emperor’s anguish, began affixing their signatures, thus approving acceptance of the Potsdam Proclamation with the proviso that the Allies recognize the lawful status of the Emperor.
All but Baron Hiranuma. As usual something bothered him; he objected to the phrasing of the stipulation “the status of our Emperor is one ordained by God.” He was adamant that the exact wording of the Constitution—“the supreme power of the Emperor”—be substituted.
Hiranuma added his signature at two-thirty. The momentous meeting was over and the military had approved what amounted to unconditional surrender. But in the absence of His Majesty, their frustration and sense of betrayal were directed at Suzuki. “You didn’t keep your promise, Mr. Prime Minister!” shouted Lieutenant General Masao Yoshizumi, who had sat in as a secretary. “Are you happy now?”
Anami stepped between them.
There was one more formality—approval by the entire Cabinet. It was convened at once at Suzuki’s home, where the ministers also drafted identical notes to each of the Allies accepting the Potsdam Proclamation “with the understanding that the said declaration does not compromise any demand which prejudices the prerogatives of His Majesty as a Sovereign Ruler.”†
It had been a long evening. Suzuki went upstairs to bed. Sakomizu didn’t leave but slumped down in an armchair and was soon asleep. The others wearily headed home through the dark, quiet streets of Tokyo. Everyone but Togo. Debilitated by pernicious anemia, he was probably the most exhausted of all. Light was just faintly coming from the east as his car stopped at the makeshift Foreign Ministry, where he wanted to record the Emperor’s words which burned in his mind. He dictated them to his unofficial secretary, his son-in-law Fumihiko Togo, who, despite the family ties, remained in awe of the old man. He had rarely seen him exhibit any emotion, but as Togo recited what His Majesty had said his eyes filled with tears.
August 10 dawned hot and muggy in Tokyo. At Army Headquarters on Ichigaya Heights more than fifty officers of the War Ministry waited in an air-raid shelter for the appearance of General Anami. The emergency summons of so many important officers aroused lively speculation. Was the War Minister going to announce the merger of the Army and Navy? Was it something about the atomic bomb or was he going to report on last night’s imperial conference?
At nine-thirty Anami, flanked by two high-ranking officers, strode down the long tunnel from the Headquarters building and into the bunker. As he mounted a little platform, riding crop in right hand, the audience clustered about him in a semicircle. Quietly he said that last night’s imperial conference had decided to accept the Potsdam Proclamation.
Incredulous, several shouted “No!” Anami held up his hands for quiet. “I do not know what excuse I can offer,” he said, “but since it is the wish of His Majesty that we accept the Potsdam Proclamation there is nothing that can be done.” He told them of the Army’s minimum demands and regretted he had been unable to get them accepted. He promised, however, to make another attempt, and he asked for their help to keep order in the Army whatever happened. “Your individual feelings and those of the men under you must be disregarded.”
A major stepped forward. “What about the duty of the military to protect the nation?”
Ordinarily a gentle man, Anami brandished his crop at the major. “If anybody disobeys Anami’s order, he will have to cut Anami down!”
Lieutenant Colonel Masao Inaba of the Military Affairs Bureau approached the general with a plan to keep order in the Army. “Regardless of whether we end the war or not,” he said, “we must send out instructions to keep fighting, particularly with the Soviet troops advancing in Manchuria.”
“Write it out,” said Anami.
It still remained for the Cabinet to decide how much the public should be told. The military was unwilling to reveal the Emperor’s decision for fear it would immediately undermine Japan’s will to fight and bring chaos. A compromise was reached: they would merely issue a vag
ue statement that would help prepare the people for surrender. It was composed by Kainan Shimomura, President of the Information Board, and his staff. It boasted of victories, condemned the new bomb as ruthless and barbarous, and warned that the enemy was about to invade the homeland. The last paragraph alone gave an indication that the public was about to face an unprecedented situation:
In truth, we must recognize that we are now beset with the worst possible situation. Just as the government is exerting its utmost efforts to defend the homeland, safeguard kokutai, and preserve the honor of the nation, so too must the people rise to the occasion and overcome all manner of difficulties in order to protect the national essence of their empire.
On the other hand, there was no hint at all of surrender in Inaba’s instructions to the officers and men of the Army, to fight the holy war to the end:
We are determined to fight resolutely, although we may have to chew grass, eat dirt and sleep in the fields. It is our belief that there is life in death. This is the spirit of the great Nanko, who wanted to be reborn seven times in order to serve the country, or the indomitable spirit of Tokimune, who refused to be swayed and pressed on vigorously with the work of crushing the Mongolian horde.
Shortly after Inaba sent the message to the War Minister for approval, two perturbed lieutenant colonels—one a press officer, the other Masahiko Takeshita, Anami’s brother-in-law—burst into Inaba’s office with the information that the Cabinet was about to issue a public statement hinting at surrender. Since this would create confusion among the troops, they must broadcast Inaba’s exhortation at once. Inaba turned his wastebasket upside down and retrieved a crumpled sheet of paper, the original draft of his statement. Because it was in Anami’s name he hesitated releasing it without the War Minister’s approval. But the two colonels convinced him there was no time, and copies of the instructions were sent immediately to all local radio stations and newspapers.